


maybe I'm looking for something (I can't have)

by theproblematicgay



Series: Happiness is Soft Light [1]
Category: American Horror Story: Murder House, Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Altered Mental States, American Horror Story References, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Billy Hargrove Being an Asshole, Billy Hargrove Tries to Be a Better Person, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Bottom Steve Harrington, Brotherly Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson, Depression, Gay Billy Hargrove, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Schizophrenia, Self-Harm, Steve Harrington Has Nightmares, Steve is 16, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Billy Hargrove, Underage Drug Use, Underage Smoking, big warning for self-harm actually guys please don't make yourselves uncomfortable, billy is 18, it's basically inspired by AHS: MH but there's no ghosts or murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2019-08-28 08:35:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16719966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theproblematicgay/pseuds/theproblematicgay
Summary: He opens his eyes and watches as the shadow underneath the sink grows, rocks back,breathesand creeps along the tiles of the bathroom floor toward him. He buries his teeth into his lip, frozen in place.“If you’re trying to kill yourself,” a voice announces abruptly, “you’re doing it wrong.”Steve’s eyes don’t move, stay half-focused on the shadow just before his feet as though it’s about to leap at his face with claws and rows of teeth from a face that opens up like a flower. His fingers twitch.It feels a little like sleep paralysis. Only, Steve doesn’t think he’s asleep this time. He wants to go to sleep.“God, you’re just as fucked up as the rest of us, aren’t you?”Alternatively: the AHS:MH AU no one asked for





	1. the stars are screaming loud

**Author's Note:**

> >   
> _‘Guess I should have seen it coming; caught me by surprise. I wasn't looking where I was going, fell into your eyes.’_ \- Avicii, _Addicted to You_  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> So yeah, I'm probably gonna change the summary.
> 
> Basically this is like an AHS: Murder House inspired thing but there're no ghosts or murder or suicide (but, who knows what lies in the future *rubs hands together*) - just that Billy is Steve's dad's patient, Steve's just moved into the house and there're some weird neighbours. 
> 
> I would like to put out a seriously big warning for explicit self-harm, not just reference to it - please look after yourselves. There's also a lot of references and explicit depictions of mental health - e.g. seeing/hearing things that aren't really there, dissociation, depressive episodes, paranoia, etc. 
> 
> I would also like to thank every single one of you that have read, commented and left kudos on my works - it really is appreciated guys, it always makes my day, thank you so much. 
> 
> This is going to be a series - this is going to be three chapters that basically introduces the plot and stuff and then in the (hopefully) near future I will progress with it. This is basically an idea I had an ran with so, bear with me.
> 
>  
> 
> okay, and, just for some context - shortly after Steve first moved, Dustin had to start staying with his aunt for a few weeks cause she's not well so he's basically an hour's drive away (it's all so convenient :) )

 

_____

 

June had been the beginning of heatwaves that year, a promise of a somewhat extended summer and longer days. Steve had spent the past month praying that either the AC would miraculously begin working or for death to simply come and end his suffering.  
He hadn’t complained though, had been grateful for the way the daylight seemed to stall, lingering on the horizon until it bled away entirely. He knew what liked to stalk the shadows, what waited for him, for anyone caught off-guard. 

The leaves had yellowed within the past week, barely into August. Steve liked to watch as they shivered in the bitter mornings outside his window, the tire swing that had been left up by the family that’d lived here before them rocking in the breeze.

"You alright?" His father smiles somewhat warmly over his newspaper at him across the kitchen table. 

He nods absently, not looking up from his cereal. “How’s mom?” 

“Still stuck with Wilson up in New York. I swear, that man can talk.” 

There’s an elongated pause that neither of them know how to fill. 

His father abruptly stands after a minute of silence and if Steve jumps a little, his father doesn’t point it out. “I have an appointment later today. One of the reasons we chose this house is because it meant that I could still work from home.” 

They’d moved to San Diego two weeks ago. The sudden shift from Indiana weather to the sweltering hatred of the surface of the fucking sun had almost given his mother heatstroke. His father’s ‘office’ was currently smothered under a blanket of years’ worth of dust and God-knows-what. Steve hadn’t gotten around to cleaning it out and his mother hadn’t hired a maid yet. Until the office was available, his father had had to move his appointments to the living room. 

He passes by Steve as he rounds the table and places a hand on his shoulder with a touch of hesitant affection. He sighs. “When he comes, I want you to stay upstairs; it’s preferable my new client knows nothing of my personal life. It could interfere with my work with him _and_ endanger you.” 

“Who is it?” Steve cautiously gauges his expression. 

Two years ago, his father had diagnosed that kid off the news that’d killed his entire family in their sleep. He’d overheard the sessions sitting outside his father’s old office. He’d enjoyed telling Dustin everything that the news had left out. 

“Just a boy.” There’s a warning in his tone that Steve’s heard enough times to recognise by now. “He’s dangerous, Steve. He’s not like most of my clients.”

“You mean he isn’t some depressed fifteen-year-old that’s tried to kill himself?” He asks, casual, though the building tightness in his jaw suggests anything but as he twists his spoon between his fingers. 

His father stills. “Steve,” there’s the warning again. “Not today. Please. I have enough on my plate.” 

“He try and kill anyone?” Steve presses regardless. “He one of those psychos? Let me guess, he’s from Florida.” He chuckles darkly. “Or is it California?”

“Steve.” His father’s hand hits the table and they both startle a little this time at the noise. “Enough.” 

Steve blinks at the table for a moment. “Say hi to mom for me.” 

He places his bowl in the sink and wanders upstairs. He falls face-first on his bed and groans. His bag rattles as the bed shakes with his weight. He rifles through it, finds his laptop, a couple books and antidepressants.  
He sighs, looks over at the yellow post-it stuck on his wall that reads _’TAKE THEM PLEASE, WE LOVE YOU -M’_ in sharpie and unscrews the orange lid. He swallows down one of the pills with some water and feels distantly disappointed that he doesn’t feel any different immediately afterward, even though he knows that’s not how _anything_ works. 

The room, consisting of seven sealed boxes, an unmade bed, a chest of drawers and an old oak closet, is as bare as it can get. There’s a simple shade for the window and outside, a small peeling windowsill planter. The flowers that might have grown in it once are wilted, brown and scratch against the glass like fingernails. The walls, painted a pale powder blue, are cracked in places and littered with the shadows of photographs and a crucifix above the headboard of his bed. The bare lightbulb casts a shaky artificial white light and the floorboards creak with every slow step. 

He stands at his window again, watching the autumn leaves outside flutter in spirals toward the lawn.  
He catches sight of a man turned his way stood on the path just outside the garden. He can’t make out the man’s face from where he’s stood, but he does notice the smooth pink scar running along his face, just above his cheekbone. Steve wants to inwardly wince in sympathy but instead, he feels a little numb.

As if on autopilot, he reaches for the shade and pulls it down. He lays down atop the covers on his bed, pressing his face into the fabric. 

He ends up falling asleep before he can catch himself.

 

~

 

Steve sits down on the last step a little heavily, wincing at the noise. Neither his father or the client seem to acknowledge or hear it so he relaxes, leans forward and rests his chin on his knees. 

The staircase led directly into the living room and allowed Steve a view into his father's makeshift office whilst the room upstairs was still littered with boxes and dust. There was a specific step where he knew he wouldn't be seen. 

“I wasn’t gonna kill him.” The boy huffs in reply to something his father must’ve said, rolling his eyes as though it were obvious. “I only kill the people I like. I hurt the people I don’t.” He shrugs, nonchalant. 

“What about the people you love?” Steve’s father is calm and collected as he asks, hands clasped on his lap as though he doesn’t have the slightest concern of being on the blonde’s list or whatever it is kids like him probably have. 

The boy stares at him incredulously and that seems to be answer enough. 

Steve sees something within him, something guarded with a strength to it that reminds him of his father’s last client before they’d moved. Steve had had his ear pressed against the door, eager to overhear anything. He’d listened to the girl, Nancy, a skinny, frail little bird of a thing wax poetic about her boyfriend. She’d cried for most of the session, over how he would never love her the same way she loved him, because she just loved him that much. And as much as he’d rolled his eyes, mouthed, _’Crazies,’_ to himself with an amused huff, Steve can distantly remember still thinking that he’d probably kill for someone to love him like that. 

A few days after when they were packing all their shit away in boxes, he’d asked his dad about why someone would kill another person for something as fickle as love. His dad had chuckled a little darkly, humourlessly, and said, _’I don’t think someone like that could have the capacity for love, son. All they know is infatuation.’_

“Why did you hurt him? Lucas, I mean.” 

Steve doesn’t know a Lucas personally, but he’s already feeling sorry for this kid he’s never even heard of. The feeling gets worse when his eyes hone in on the broad expanse of the boy’s shoulders, the capability of his hands. 

“He was dating my step-sister. Didn’t like him, like I said.” The boy shrugs. 

His dad leans forward a little. “Max, right? Your sister.”

 _“Step_ -sister.” The boy’s voice is icy, eyes hardening before the intricate mask seems to settle back over his expression like a blanket smothering a fire. Steve feels cold. 

Steve’s dad simply takes it in stride, quick to move on. “Step-sister,” he corrects himself dismissively. “How do you feel about Max? It’s been a long time since you’ve seen her now,” his dad presses. 

Steve almost wants to ask what the hell he’s doing. The boy’s jaw clenches. “She’s a brat.” 

“What about your father?” He visibly bristles at that. “The last time I saw you, you had some very strong feelings about him.”

There’s an unnerving calm smirk that somewhat suppresses the expression on the blonde’s face then, but it doesn’t do anything to contain the hardness in his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about my father. Seems like you heard enough last time.” His tone is final, and his dad doesn’t seem to want to push that any further. 

“Well, thank you for coming along today, Billy; I know you’ve had a difficult few days this week with your chest and all.” His dad stands with a small comfortable smile. “Now, I have a conference Saturday so we’ll have to move your appointment to Sunday, alright?” Billy nods, still sat in the armchair as if Steve’s dad is the one expected to leave. 

Steve shifts, preparing to move from the stairs before he can be caught sneaking around when Billy’s eyes lock with his own. His lips curl in a quick malicious grin, all teeth and a flick of his tongue. His eyes are piercing blue, cold. Steve stiffens, but the boy’s already turning his back to him, heading for the door, a tightness in his shoulders.

Steve sits shellshocked on the stairs for a second too long and his father steps into sight all of a sudden, a disappointed look on his face as he stands at the bottom of the stairs. “Steve. I know you were eavesdropping.”

“Yeah, dad.” He doesn’t even try to explain himself. “I was bored. Sorry,” he tries weakly. 

“I told you, you can’t keep doing this kind of thing, Steven.” His father looks ready to yell, teeth clenched. Steve sighs, heads down the stairs two at a time and snags his jacket off the banister. “Where are you going?” 

“Outside.” He slams the door behind him, palming his jeans for cigarettes. 

He doesn’t expect to see Billy staring down at him, just inches from his face, his own cigarette between his fingers. The end of it burns in the near-darkness of the summer afternoon like a lightning bug, a pinprick of brightness. 

He jumps back and hits his head on the door, yelping. “Dude, what the hell?”

Billy breathes a slow stream of smoke into Steve’s face as he steps forward, just as close as he had been before. Steve wishes the door would give just a little. “I could ask you the same thing, pretty boy,” he smiles, a vicious thing. He retreats somewhat, steps out of his space after his moment of acting like a complete psycho is supposedly over. “Not safe out here, you know.” 

Steve rolls his eyes. “Oh, great. This is exactly what I need; some cryptic asshole.” He snaps, breathing in sharply through his nose. “Are you done?”

Billy smirks at him, flicks the cigarette from between his fingers to the ground before grinding it under his heel. He shoots Steve a malicious grin over his shoulder, all teeth, as he walks toward his car parked at the end of his drive. As it roars off down the street, taillights like supercilious red eyes, the sound cuts through him and Steve has to swallow the urge to flip the fucking thing off. He huffs, watching it disappear from sight.

 

~

 

One of the best things about California was the pot. It was easier to get hold of and cheaper than the shit from Indiana (depending on who you asked). Steve had always kept some under his bed for almost a year now for those Bad Days where no matter how many lights he kept on, no matter how much he turned up the heating, the room just seemed darker, colder.  
It’s when he can see his own breath, doesn’t matter if the thermostat tells him it’s seventy-five degrees; it’s when the shadows cast around the room from the chandelier and lamps start to inch closer with every blink - that’s when he knows it’s time to break it out. 

It helps him feel, if not more in control, less like he’s going to be swallowed up by something he can’t see. It’s worse when he _can_ see them. 

Tonight just happens to be one of those nights where it doesn’t help as much as it usually does. He knows he should call Dustin, ask if he can stay over, if not just get a cab over there instead and sleep on his aunt's floor that seems so much more comforting than his own goddamn bed. Instead, he pushes at his sleeves and sits on the edge of the bathtub. 

The multitude of scars are not a pretty sight, but it helps just to see them, helps him ground himself just a little better, to feel as though he’s not about to lose the ground from right underneath his feet.  
They cover a majority of the skin from midway down his forearm to his elbow. And just like he knows it’ll be light again in eight hours, he knows that if he rolls his sleeve up just a little more, he’d find the jagged, almost-white scar that runs four-and-a-half inches down his forearm. 

It’s almost dark now, he can see through the little rectangular window on the other wall. The clock beside his bed had read _19:32._ It’s not too late to call Dustin.  
He startles, almost leaps from where he’s perched on the edge of the bathtub when he hears the birds suddenly start shrieking from the line of trees just behind the house. He lets out a long breath, closing the window with a little more force than is probably necessary. His fingers fumble around the little blade. 

Soon enough, there’s a small trickle of blood on his wrist. The bathroom light flickers. He shuts his eyes, tightens his hands into trembling fists and presses them to his face, hard. The blade cuts into the skin of his fingertips. There’s the warmth of blood in his hand, on his arm. 

He opens his eyes and watches as the shadow underneath the sink grows, rocks back, _breathes_ and creeps along the tiles of the bathroom floor toward him. He buries his teeth into his lip, frozen in place. 

“If you’re trying to kill yourself,” a voice announces abruptly, “you’re doing it wrong.” 

Steve’s eyes don’t move, stay half-focused on the shadow just before his feet as though it’s about to leap at his face with claws and rows of teeth from a face that opens up like a flower. His fingers twitch. 

It feels a little like sleep paralysis. Only, Steve doesn’t think he’s asleep this time. He wants to go to sleep. 

“God, you’re just as fucked up as the rest of us, aren’t you?” Steve doesn’t know if the voice means that in the way he reeks of pot, or in the way his sleeves are rucked up to expose the blood and the scars. “Some psychologist this guy’s gotta be if you’re his fuckin’ son.” He's not sure if that's meant to be an insult. 

He tears his eyes away from the shadow once he’s semi-convinced it’s not about to eat his face and follows it to a pair of scuffed doc martens stood in the doorway of the bathroom. The shadow jerks with him as he shifts, cocking his head at Steve. He almost jumps, but he’s too busy registering cold blue eyes, long tangles of blond curls and trying to place them. Where has he seen this boy before? 

“Is there anybody else here?” Steve shakes his head slowly in response. “Fuck.” The blond sighs, runs a hand through his curls frustratedly. He watches Steve warily. “Do I need to call someone?” _Dustin,_ his mind provides almost a little desperately behind the haze in his head.

After a long drawn-out moment, Steve shakes his head again. 

“Well if I leave you like this and you die or something, someone’s probably gonna find something to put me here and I’m gonna get the fuckin’ blame, okay?” The blond rolls his eyes, expression hardening as he rests his head against the doorframe.

It’s that expression that seems to bring Steve back out of his own head a little. _Billy,_ something supplies. He frowns.

“How’d you get in here?” 

He chuckles darkly. “If you’re trying to kill yourself, you should lock your door. God knows you should do it anyway; I’m guessing you haven’t lived in California long?” Steve feels he doesn’t even need to answer that. “Lock your fuckin’ door, amigo. Wouldn’t want any weirdos stopping by now, would we?” He laughs again, raising an eyebrow. Steve’s come around enough that he understands that Billy means himself. 

He hesitates. “Why are you here, then?” His voice is soft, as though he doesn’t want to offend Billy, as though the blond has every fucking right to just waltz in his house uninvited. 

“Left my phone here.” He holds it up as evidence. It’s an old iPhone in a dark green case; there’s a long crack spider-webbed along the screen. “Door was unlocked and I needed it. Saw the bathroom light on as I was about to leave.” 

“How’d you know he’s my dad?” Steve realises he hasn’t made any attempt to pull down his sleeves or hide the blade between his fingers yet. 

He stands up a little too fast and almost falls over. He grabs the sink, jars his wrist and flinches when Billy makes to support him before he catches himself. The blond steps back into the hall. If Steve weren’t halfway to unconscious, he’d trust his judgement when he thinks that he looks a little unsure, as though he isn’t certain how he should hold himself around Steve. 

He turns back to face Billy once the dizziness subsides somewhat and the expression on his face is response enough, seeming to project _’you’re shitting me, right?’_ Steve shrugs a little, defensively, like it was a valid question. 

Billy is a whole head taller than him, he despairs to realise. He's also twice as broad, but Steve's always been a skinny fuck. 

“Well, I got my phone and you’re fine now, so,” he steps back a little more, eagerly, “I’m gonna go.” He turns on his heel and Steve watches him make a beeline for the front door. He tosses a careless, “See you later, pretty boy,” over his shoulder, and with that, Billy’s gone. 

He mutters, “Asshole,” even though he knows he won’t be heard. 

He washes the blood away under the faucet, the warmth of the water prickling his skin, and rinses out the sink. 

Steve stands in the doorway for a while, watching the front door until he’s tired enough, more than a little concerned he might fall over, to head for the living room. He sleeps on the sofa, leaves the lights on.  
His dreams are fragments of vivid colours; orange leaves, blue eyes and rows of white barbed teeth.

 

~


	2. under this light, here with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve shouldn’t feel like this, _too warm_ under Billy’s fingers, slowly curling around his calf; Billy shouldn’t be _here,_ sat on the floor of Steve’s room - he knows that. He can’t bring himself to do anything about it though. He wants to feel more of that heat, the tendrils of it winding up his thighs, curling into his abdomen as it burns its way into his chest, borderline painful. 
> 
>  
> 
> Or: A sexuality crisis, the beach and a warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, thank you for waiting for this chapter - i know i took forever to do it but it's here now, i guess  
> enjoy *jazz hands* 
> 
> I want to say thanks to skinnyjolene and stateofd_art for really motivating me as well as everyone else who's left a comment - you're all wonderful. Every read, comment and kudos is really appreciated guys, tysm. 
> 
>  
> 
> ~
>
>> All I've ever done is hide  
> From our times when you're near me  
> Honey, when you kill the lights and kiss my eyes  
> I feel like a person for a moment of my life
>>
>>>   
> \- Hozier, _To Be Alone_

 

~

 

Billy’s leant against his car, shoulders braced against the cold of the evening as he lights up a cigarette. The end of it burns like a firefly, glowing in the semi-darkness.  
Steve watches from his windowsill, watches as Billy breathes a long stream of smoke toward the sky, watches as his eyes flicker up to meet his, darting away from the window on instinct when he smiles, slow and poisonous. He takes a moment to steel himself, forehead pressed to the windowpane, before heading downstairs. 

Not even two days had gone by since Billy had caught Steve in the middle of his little fucking episode. It wasn’t exactly something he was eager to address, but he figured he’d probably have to face it sometime soon. 

Outside, Billy is leant against the pillar on the porch. His arms are crossed over his chest, and it might have seemed threatening if not for the way his shoulders tighten every few seconds as if to stave off shivering. 

“What are you doing here, amigo?” 

Steve wants to fucking shoot himself. _Amigo?_

Billy bares his teeth. It looks a little like a smile. “Hey, there. _Amigo.”_ He grins at that, steps forward slightly, a towering figure in Steve’s doorway. “Maybe I just wanted to check in?” 

Steve rolls his eyes, can’t find the energy within himself to deal with this. “Well, I ain’t standing here all night.” He turns away. He sees Billy’s expression fall into one of shock for a brief second and smiles to himself, heading back to his room. 

He doesn’t shut the door, doesn’t look back as he makes his way upstairs, but he hears the click as it shuts out the sound of the street, hears Billy’s footsteps follow.

 

~

 

“Pacers or Bulldogs?” 

“Pacers,” Steve grins, shaking his head slightly. “Is that even a question?” 

“Alright.” Billy rolls his eyes from where he’s sitting on the floor by Steve’s bed, legs crossed like a child. It’s startling to see him like this. Steve doesn’t know whether it’s the expression on his face, the lack of tension, the way he seems to laugh like it’s suddenly easy or how he looks up at him like he’s known Steve all his life, is comfortable around him, but it’s nice. Comfortable. _“Led Zeppelin_ or _Def Leppard?”_ He narrows his eyes suspiciously. 

Steve huffs. _“Def Leppard?”_ Billy clutches at his chest with a hand, a wounded look on his face as he sucks in an exaggerated sharp breath. Steve laughs, dropping his head as he mirrors Billy, crossing his legs where he’s sat atop the covers of his bed. “What?” 

“I bet you’ve only really heard one of their songs, pretty boy,” Billy accuses, a wicked smile catching Steve off guard. His eyes are bright, framed in dark lashes. He runs his tongue along his teeth as he leans in close, tilting his head to look Steve in the eye. “And I’d bet I can guess which one it is.” 

Steve has to wrench himself away, plays it off with a shrug and a smile even though he’s only half-sure he really heard what Billy had said. He throws himself on his back, legs dangling off the edge of the bed as he stares up at the ceiling. “I don’t really listen to either, man,” he confesses. 

_Something in the Way_ is playing softly from a vinyl on Steve’s nightstand. He’d found it in the room when they’d moved in, tucked behind an old portrait in a corner. There’d only been three records with it, but Steve didn’t mind the ones he’d found so far.  
He likes to think about the last time those records could have been played. It feels nostalgic, in the ridiculous way that teenagers tend to feel about an era they can’t remember. It feels comforting, more homely than Steve can remember ever feeling. 

He feels Billy’s hand shove at one of his calves. “Well, I guess I really need to educate you then.”

Steve shouldn’t feel like this, _too warm_ under Billy’s fingers slowly curling around his calf; Billy shouldn’t be here, sat on the floor of Steve’s room - he knows that. He can’t bring himself to do anything about it though. He wants to feel more of that heat, the tendrils of it winding up his thighs, curling into his abdomen as it burns its way into his chest, borderline painful. 

“Steve?”

He sits up too fast and something in his neck twinges. “Dad?”

He’s stood in the doorway of Steve’s room, shoulders tight and his face drawn, harsh. He’s not looking at Steve though. “What are you doing in my son’s room?” 

Billy stands up, and for a second, Steve’s scared he’s gonna hit his father. Instead, he smiles. “Just being friendly.” He turns to Steve for a moment, relaxed. He doesn’t wait to be told to get out. “See you, Amigo.” 

“What the hell are you doing?” 

“Me? What the hell are _you_ doing, dad? We were talking.” Steve stands, arms crossed over his chest. “I recall you saying something like, _make more friends, Steve; you don’t talk to people enough, Steve; why don’t you have more friends, Steve?” ___

__His father runs a hand through his hair frustratedly. Steve sees a little of himself in that and hates it. “I didn’t mean my clients. I didn’t mean _dangerous criminals,_ Steven.” _ _

__He rolls his eyes. “Well, it’s funny how he’s here more than you ever are, right, dad?” His dad looks like he’s about to deflate, about to sit down on Steve’s bed beside him and _talk,_ but Steve doesn’t want that, doesn’t want to feel like a child being dismissed. “Get out.”_ _

__His father looks shocked, ready to yell again. “Steven-“_ _

__“What? You can tell him to get out of _my_ room, but I can’t get you to?” Steve tightens his jaw, lowers his voice, hardens it. “I don’t want to _talk_ right now.” _ _

__He turns his back to him, lies down on his side and waits, watches the leaves outside the window shake._ _

__He startles at a sharp clatter, sits up a little hesitantly. There’s another; a small pebble hitting the glass._ _

__He undoes the latch, slides his window up with a shuddering groan that’s a testament to how long it’s been left undisturbed._ _

___“Billy?”_ Sure as the sky is blue, Billy’s stood there, hip cocked and an insufferable expression his face. “What are you doing?” _ _

__He shrugs. “You want to get out of here, amigo?” He nods toward the car pointedly._ _

__Steve glances over his shoulder more out of habit than anything else. He takes a minute to think, coming up short with nothing much else other than _what’s the worst that could happen?_ He bites his lip, pauses, and ultimately hooks his leg out of the window, ducking his head and sitting uncomfortably on the window pane. He can see when Billy grins out of the corner of his eye.  
He narrowly avoids slipping on the drainpipe and jumps inelegantly from the decline of the roof underneath his window onto the wall. _ _

__“C’mon, pretty boy,” Billy grumbles._ _

__He hisses when he grazes his palms on the bare brick but smiles in delight at the glint in Billy’s eyes. “I’d like to see you do better,” he huffs._ _

__“Experienced in sneaking back out girls’ windows?” Billy knocks him lightly with his shoulder._ _

__Steve lets out a sharp breath of laughter. “Yeah, something like that.” He shakes his head. “C’mon, my dad’s gonna see us if we stay here.”_ _

__Billy angles his arm so it interlocks with his and directs him to the car. It’s awkward, because of the height difference, but Billy tows him along as though there’s no issue. “I know the perfect place. Gotta show you around after all, right?”_ _

__The car is littered with old cassettes, takeaway boxes and soda cans. Billy shoves them into the back, patting the front seat. “Where’re we going?”_ _

__“Guess you’ll see when we get there, won’t you?” Billy grins._ _

__Steve rolls his eyes, a sharp breath of laughter escaping him as he kicks the heels of his feet up on the dash. They’re immediately smacked down as Billy bats his hand at Steve’s calf. “Watch it,” he grumbles._ _

__He leans over, curls brushing against Steve’s cheek as he swipes at dirt Steve can’t see from where his sneakers had been. Billy’s neck is bared from this angle and Steve stiffens a little but doesn’t lean back, has to stop himself from pressing forward._ _

__He turns away and is surprised to see the horizon glowing orange over a long stretch of sand. “Are you taking me to the beach?”_ _

__“This is the reason people move to California and you’re complaining?”_ _

__“One; pretty sure I didn’t move here to get tan or eaten by sharks.” Billy laughs, elbowing him gently. “Two; I’m not complaining.” It’s Steve’s turn to shove at Billy, feeling like he’s said too much or crossed some unspoken line. He’s not lying; sitting on the beach with Billy, asshole or not, isn’t something he feels he could complain about._ _

__“I think you could do with some sun, Indiana,” Billy grins to himself, pulling up into the empty parking lot. “Any paler and you’ll blend in with the British tourists.” He kills the engine and in the quiet of the car, he turns to Steve, expression light. “So why did you move here?”_ _

__Steve grins humourlessly. “That’s a whole other shit-show.” When Billy doesn’t try to change the subject or backpedal, he takes it as a cue to continue. “I mean, you saw that shit the other day.” He raises his arms pointedly despite the long sleeves. “There’s nothing better to do in small towns other than talk.”_ _

__Billy nods understandingly with a sympathetic grin. “Hate to tell you, but people still talk no matter where you go.” Steve studies his face; it’s shifted, something bitter and resentful settling in his expression. He wants to ask, wants to know what it is, but if Billy means what he says, he’s sure he’ll probably hear about it from someone else anyway. “Can’t run away from everything.” He reaches for a plastic bag thrown on the backseat and fishes out two colas._ _

__“Wasn’t running,” Steve shrugs. “I think my dad wanted to though, so.” He shrugs again, not sure what to do with himself now._ _

__Billy hands him the can and holds his own up in the air until Steve knocks them together as though they’re champagne glasses. “To shitty parents, huh?”_ _

__Steve snorts and snaps the tab of the can to hide the way he watches Billy after that. “Come on; I’ve never actually been to the beach.” He knocks Billy’s arm and gets out of the car. The immediate smell of salt and burnt sugar hits him in the face. Billy inhales deeply, comfortably, and stretches his arms over his head._ _

__They head for the vendor a short distance away, the sickeningly sweet smell thickening around them the closer they get. It leaves Steve feeling a little lightheaded. Billy jerks his head to move some stray curls from his face and catches Steve’s eye in the process, grinning wickedly. He hands him a sugar doughnut, still warm through the paper._ _

__At the edge of the beach Billy toes off his boots so Steve pulls off his sneakers, shoving his socks inside them. They leave them in the car and walk toward the water, Steve stepping in the footprints Billy leaves behind. He glances over his shoulder at Steve and raises an eyebrow, an amused tilt to his mouth. Steve shrugs defensively and hurries to catch up, trying to match his long strides._ _

__They sit not far off from the water’s edge, careless of the sand sticking to their jeans and Steve smiles, cocking his head so to study Billy. There’s some sugar still stuck to his lower lip and his skin’s took on a warm glow under the sunset, blond hair curling into messy halo around his head in the light. He imagines running his teeth across his jugular, imagines what his skin would taste like under the press of his tongue; salt, most likely, in the oceanside air._ _

__Billy’s fingers are picking at the seam of his jeans, grains of sand rolling between the pads of his fingertips. There’s a long pink scar that runs along the length of his knuckles that has paled with time, marbled and clean, precise. Steve thinks it’s probably from a particularly bad break that had needed surgery to put right, but it’s not this scar that really catches his attention. There are three more scattered around it, smaller and darker. If he were to guess, he’d say they were burns from the end of a cigarette._ _

__He thinks of his own scars underneath his sleeves, both drastically different but just as ridiculously violent._ _

__“What?”_ _

__His eyes snap up to meet Billy’s when he realises he’s been caught staring._ _

__He smiles reassuringly, shaking his head a little. “Nothing.”_ _

__Billy huffs, smiles back and knocks their shoulders together._ _

__“Is that Billy Hargrove?” A muted voice carries across the shore._ _

__Billy turns his head to see two approaching figures and sighs a sharp exasperated breath through his nose.  
Steve peeks at the couple over Billy’s shoulder. “Who’re they?” _ _

__“Hargrove,” the other figure calls, unreserved and somewhat amiable._ _

__Billy stands, brushing the sand from his jeans. “What d’you want, Tommy?” His voice is cold and his shoulders broaden rather menacingly._ _

__The guy, Tommy, pulls his arm from around the shoulders of the girl beside him. He smiles at Billy like they’re old friends._ _

__The girl doesn’t try to hide any of the displeasure in her expression. “Maybe we were just curious to see what you were up to this time.” She narrows her eyes, an old resentment rearing its head within them._ _

__Billy scoffs in her face as he steps into her space, “Fuck off, Carol.”_ _

__She laughs, something saccharine. “Who’s this?” Carol asks faux-sweetly, though she still doesn’t break eye contact with Billy._ _

__Tommy, however, stalks around the side of Billy while he’s too busy facing off to Carol to get a good look at Steve. He smiles at him, all teeth and crinkled eyes and it’s threatening, similar to Billy’s grin and simultaneously nothing like it._ _

__Steve stands up, feeling cornered, using his hand on Billy’s leg for support and doesn’t turn away from Tommy even though he wants to try and urge Billy into leaving._ _

__Tommy considers him for a long moment, eyes trailing down and back up, contemplative. “I guess he’s cute. Definitely your type, right?” He laughs. “Found a new toy, Hargrove?”_ _

__Billy’s lip curls in a snarl as he turns to face Tommy, gently shouldering Steve out of the way as he postures up to him. There’s a ridiculous size difference between the two of them for Tommy to be so confident; he’s only just taller than Steve and almost as lanky._ _

__“Get fucked,” he grinds out through gritted teeth._ _

__Steve can see the way Tommy’s hands have tightened at his sides, knuckles whitening, so, after hesitating for a second, he winds his fingers in the back of Billy’s shirt and tugs. “Come on, Billy. Let’s just go,” he pleads._ _

__A hand curls over Steve’s shoulder, long manicured nails dragging over bare skin as they dip beneath the collar of his shirt. It pulls him back, forces him to reluctantly release his grip on Billy’s shirt and turn to face Carol._ _

__“Come on, sweetheart, we’re only playing,” she croons. “We just thought you should know.” She leans in close enough that Steve can smell her perfume, presses her cheek to his neck._ _

__Billy falters a little at that and Steve’s eyes dart to scrutinise the tension that ripples between his shoulder blades in lieu of an expression to go by. He stiffens, pauses, but ultimately asks, “Know what?”_ _

__A rich, earnest laugh. “Why don’t you ask him?”_ _

__Billy’s hand wraps around Carol’s wrist and wrenches it from its perch on Steve’s shoulder. Tommy’s quick to follow behind him, pushing her from his grip and punches Billy, loose fist catching his jaw in an uppercut.  
Steve stumbles back, unsure whether he should try and get help. _ _

__Billy rears back on Tommy and shoves a hand out to throw him backward by the throat. He falls on his back on the sand in Billy’s shadow. Steve’s unsure whether or not he should try and find help, whether anyone actually would, but he doesn’t have the time to deliberate it any further. As Carol launches herself forward, one hand twisting into Billy’s hair as the other curls into a fist, Tommy rights himself and focuses his attention on Steve._ _

__Steve tries to knock Tommy’s hand from where it latches on to his shirt as he advances forward but he just kicks Steve’s legs out from underneath him and lets him fall. Steve panics and kicks out at Tommy’s knee, flipping over onto his hands and knees to scramble away as Billy pushes Carol back and tackles Tommy._ _

__“Billy,” Steve shrieks as he eagerly distances himself._ _

__Billy looks up at him, shoves Tommy one last time and darts over to Steve. He grips him by the arm and hurries them back toward the car, breathless.  
The camaro screeches as they pull out of the mostly-deserted parking lot._ _

 

__“What the hell was that?” Steve yells in the newfound silence. “What’s their _problem?”__ _

__Billy’s jaw tightens. “They’re assholes,” he dismisses._ _

__Steve doesn’t know if he wants to push this any further, so instead of pressing, he asks, “Are you okay?”_ _

__Billy snaps his head to the side momentarily to look at him and Steve’s surprised to see something like gleeful delight in Billy’s eyes. “Don’t worry about me, pretty boy.” He must see the alarm in his expression because his face softens somewhat. “What about you?” He seems almost tentative in asking._ _

__Steve nods quickly. He sucks on his lower lip, debating whether he should ask. He sighs and decides to bite the bullet. “What did she mean?”_ _

Billy shrugs as if to say _fuck if i know_ before he must realise he wants to pretend that he doesn’t know what Steve’s talking about. “What?” 

__“She said I should know.” Steve glances out the window. The last of the sun has disappeared beneath the horizon now._ _

__“Know what?” Billy hedges with a shrug._ _

__“I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair, sighs. “Like you said, they’re assholes.” He turns back to Billy and smiles reassuringly. He’s more reassured himself when Billy returns it._ _

 

__~_ _

 

By the time Billy’s dropped him back outside his house, he’s come to two conclusions. The first: Billy treats the car with a certain fondness that borders on unhealthy. It’s almost endearing.  
The piece of crap looks like a prop from a bad 80s film and smells of cheap cologne and hairspray - smells like _Billy_ \- which Steve isn’t necessarily complaining about.  
The second: he’s steadily shoving Steve into some kind of sexuality crisis. 

__He leans out the window with an easy grin as Steve walks up to his door. “See you later, amigo,” he calls, laughing as Steve flips his middle finger over his shoulder._ _

__As the rumble of the engine tapers off as the camaro disappears down the street Steve hears his father’s voice from inside._ _

__“No, I just think it would be best. It _has_ become a problem. Because he’s started to become involved in my personal life; he was in my son’s bedroom, Karen.” Steve winces, hand frozen on the doorknob. “I would just like to refer him to you; it’s one session a week.” There’s a long pause where Steve holds his breath. “Are you sure there’s nothing? Of course. No, it’s fine. I guess I’ll just have to figure something out. Thanks, Karen. Yeah, I’ll see you next week.”_ _

__His father looks up in surprise from where he’s sat on the edge of the sofa, face in the palm of one hand when Steve shuts the door behind him. “Where have you been?”_ _

__Steve shakes his head and doesn’t stop on his way to the staircase. “I’m not doing this right now, dad. Night,” he calls as he heads to his room. He hears the answering exasperated sigh from up the stairs._ _

__He fishes out the pack of cigarettes from his bag and lights one up. He’d forgotten to close the window behind him after climbing out and the room is now bitterly cold. Goosebumps rise up in trails along his arms underneath the sleeves of his jacket._ _

__He ignores it, rests his forearms against the windowpane and lets out a long breath, tendrils of smoke curling in the air.  
There’s a windowsill box of dead and half-wilted flowers outside his window, and there’s a partial footprint still left in the dirt from earlier. _ _

__The wood groans a little under his weight and he drops the cigarette between his lips in surprise. It lands beside the brown, gnarled stem of a flower. He reaches for it with unsteady fingers._ _

__The flower lurches in the breeze and twists around his hand, bristles raking along his skin and drawing little pinpricks of blood. The withered petals unfurl, blackened and brittle, and past them, Steve can see rows and rows of little white teeth._ _

__He jerks backward, stumbles and lands on his ass, the cigarette knocked from his fingers. It tumbles to the floor beside him._ _

__He jumps to his feet and eagerly shuts the window, fastening the latch with breathless horror._ _

__He falters for a second but then makes a grab for the cigarette quickly before it can start a fucking fire. A small burn is left in the carpet._ _

__He sits at the end of his bed, running a hand through his hair as he lets out a shaky breath. “Fuck.”_ _

 

____


	3. drinking you down, like I want to drown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Take another drag, turn me to ashes. Ready for another lie? Says he’s gonna teach me just what fast is, says it’s gonna be alright._
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> \- Lana Del Rey, _Diet Mountain Dew_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. I finally got round to updating *jazz hands* (im sorry)
> 
> Thank you guys so much for all the kudos and comments they honestly keep me going and motivated to write. I hope you enjoy this chapter and hopefully I shall start on the next instalment of this series soon.

“Your movie collection is shit, just so you know,” Dustin tells him that night from where he’s leaning over the banister at the top of the staircase.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Most of them are still packed away. What’d you pick anyway?” he yells back up. He groans when after a pause a wild mop of curls appear in the doorway and a copy of _Halloween_ is held up somewhat sheepishly. “Dude, it’s not even August yet.” 

Dustin gasps exaggeratedly, clutching the DVD to his chest. “It’s a _classic.”_

Steve snorts. “Yeah, okay, whatever. Grab the blankets from my room.” 

His dad had left early for New York that morning, stiffly ruffling Steve’s hair on his way out. “Dustin’s still coming over for the weekend?” 

Steve had nodded, both eager to have his dad leave and dreading an empty house to himself, even if only for a couple hours. “Yeah, his mom’s driving him in about an hour.” 

His dad had nodded, hesitated at the door. “You can call us if anything-“ 

“Dad, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry,” he dismissed; he didn’t want to see the distrust and concern in his eyes. “I’ll call mom tonight.” 

He’d changed into a blue polo before Dustin had barrelled through the door, Ms. Henderson following closely behind with a tupperware of lasagna in hand. She’d hugged him, smelling of kitchen spices and a faint floral perfume, something homely, motherly, and asked him if he was alright. She didn’t mind when he didn’t know how to answer. 

He’d started to regret his choice of a short-sleeved shirt when he noticed Dustin’s eyes lingering on his outstretched arm as he tried to figure out which cord was connected to the DVD player. As he sat back on the sofa beside him, feeling exposed and raw like a nerve, Dustin passed him a blanket with a reassuring smile, turning to the TV comfortably. Steve hadn’t missed the haunted look in his eyes though. 

“There’s gonna be a storm tonight,” Dustin grins. “Fitting, right?” He laughs. 

Steve nods, smiling absently. Dustin twists his thumbs for a minute before glancing back at Steve’s face again. 

“You okay? Lately, I mean?” 

Steve ducks his head and huffs a breath of laughter that sounds more exasperated than amused. “Everyone keeps asking. I’m _fine.”_

Dustin’s face is one of disbelief. “Just,” he hesitates, runs a hand through his hair, “you really scared me last year, man. I thought-“

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts, not unkind, but not gentle either. “I didn’t think you’d- I didn’t think you’d be-“

“Hey,” Dustin places a careful hand on his arm. “It’s okay.”

He hates that it had been Dustin, but he hadn’t thought of that beforehand. “I didn’t want it to be you. I didn’t want you to see that.”

“I know.” His gaze drifts, focuses on something over Steve’s shoulder. Steve knows what he’s seeing, what he probably still sees every time he comes over, sees his face. “I’m glad I was there though.” 

On impulse, Steve wants to say _me too,_ like he knows Dustin wants him to, but he doesn’t think he can and make it sound authentic, like it’s not the lie they would both know it is.  
Instead, he just nods.

 

Dustin’s cell shrieks from Steve’s bedside stand sometime around seven in the morning.  
He doesn’t mention it when Steve catapults himself to the end of the bed, still not entirely awake, in fear. 

“Sorry, man, it’s my mom.” He heads out into the hall to answer it. 

Steve presses his palms against his eyes and flops onto his back with a sharp breath. It’s already light out, judging by the sunlight trying to creep in through the curtain.  
He lies there, unmoving until Dustin comes back in the room with a sigh. He sits up, resting on his elbows. 

“She wants me to come home early; the storm’s gonna get worse.” There’s a guilty look on his face. Steve wants nothing more than to see it gone. 

“Okay, that’s fine,” he rushes, “tell her I said hi.” He smiles reassuringly. It feels fake, plastic. He rushes to stand and steps directly onto the greasy cardboard of a discarded pizza box before kicking it away. 

“I can stay. I can call her back and tell her I’ll just stay an extra night if-“

Steve cuts him off. “It’s fine,” he repeats. “Really, don’t worry. I’ve got a ton of boring shit I need to get done today anyway.” 

Dustin stills in the doorway, watches, looking conflicted. “So what do rich people eat for breakfast?” Steve huffs a laugh. It’s a comforting, familiar dig. 

“How do fruit loops sound?” 

“Good enough for me, man.”

 

The kitchen had been quiet, filled only with the small sounds of cutlery scraping bowls and silence Dustin had looked eager to fill but unsure as to how to go about it. 

“I could just stay late. I mean, if that’s alright, you know? Until the storm’s over,” he offers again. 

“No, it’s okay,” Steve shakes his head, “go home. Your mom’ll be worried.” There’s a long pause neither of them know what to do with. 

Steve hates that it’s like this now, and takes pity on him in another lapse of uncertainty between stilted conversation as they head for the door. “You got money for the bus?” 

“Yeah, don’t worry.” He hesitates, sets a hand on Steve’s shoulder before he leaves. It’s the most assured Steve’s seen him the entire time he had stayed. “Take care of yourself, man.”

He tosses a _love you_ over his shoulder that Steve shrugs off as he always does with a familiar, easy grin, though it doesn’t come as easy as it once might have.

 

The storm worsens. 

The house is old, Steve knows that; the door hinges shriek and the floorboards creak with every footstep. Sometimes, Steve swears he can hear the house breathing: the quiet groaning of wood in the dead of night.  
Now, amid the rain and lightning, it may as well be screaming. 

His dad had called not long after Dustin had left; something about how he’d heard about power outages and cell service. Steve had barely heard him through the static over the line and the blood rushing in his ears, a dull panic gripping him by the throat. 

The call had lasted for barely two minutes before the line went dead. The lights had shuddered along with the house and before Steve knew it he could hardly see two feet in front of his face. The fear had started to really set in at that point. 

But now, just ten minutes later, he’s somewhat okay. He’d dug out a torch from one of the boxes and sat it against the sofa beside him. It doesn’t do much to illuminate the living room but it comforts him nonetheless, a beacon, despite the way it casts jagged shadows across each wall. When he turns his head, watches from the corner of his eye, they ripple and reach out like hands in the dark before stilling under his focus. 

The only real clear light comes every few minutes, though it barely lasts for even a second. Each flash of lightning sends a jolt of terror down Steve’s spine; a fear of not knowing what he’s going to see in that instant of unrefined clarity.  
He’s just trying to focus on his next breath, counting the inhale - _one, two, three, four_ \- then the exhale - _one, two, three, four_ \- again and again. He’s afraid that if he doesn’t he’ll start hyperventilating. 

It’s all for nought really though, because not long passes until a burst of light reveals a shadowed figure stood on the porch through the window, most likely a neighbour, hand raised as if to knock. 

It takes Steve longer than it really should to get up and answer the door. He sits there for a minute, fingers gripping the material at the knees of his jeans.  
By the time he’s calmed down enough though, there’s no one there. He’s not surprised that they had given up and left, but he is surprised that the door had already been open, just a little. He had most likely forgotten to close it properly behind him after Dustin had left. 

As he shuts the door, making sure it clicks this time before he locks it, he almost slips on the rain that had spattered into the hallway. The floorboards are cold and wet beneath his bare feet. He shuts the door, shivering. 

In the dark, Steve can’t really be sure, but as he stares at the small pools of rain left in the hall, trying to let his eyes adjust as he debates how he’s going to mop it up and whether he even wants to right now anyway, one of the puddles seems too large, too isolated, a few feet away from where Steve’s stood, to have been made by the door having been left open.  
It’s almost as though something had stood there for a while, dripping onto the hardwood floor. 

Steve stands there, blinking languidly. His fingers twitch at his sides. He wets his lips, feeling uneasy. 

Another burst of lightning illuminates the hallway once again and draws his attention to a trail of wet bootprints leading to the staircase. He freezes for a second, but follows them, not sure what else to do. They start to taper off once he reaches the carpeting and Steve’s left with a maybe-not-so-empty house in the worst thunderstorm of the past few years with no cell service, a dead landline and a power outage. 

He’s stood there at the foot of the staircase, trying to breathe evenly - _one, two, three, four_ \- and wishing to God that - _one, two, three, four, fuck_ \- his imagination would just fucking _stop_ for once.  
He’d listened to his mom; he’d taken his goddamn pills; he’d made sure he was consistent about it.  
A frustrated rage bubbles up past his terror. He wants to scream, yell, confront the fucking things he _knows_ aren’t real; knows that they logically _can’t_ be. 

He thunders up the stairs, gritting his teeth and balling his hands into fists at his sides. He almost trips in the darkness but pure spite has him continuing without so much as an acknowledgement of the resulting pain in his foot. 

On the landing, the wide window allowing for at least some light to get through, there are no more footprints for him to follow, so he stands there, waiting.  
He remembers going to one of his father’s lectures at a university with his mother a few years back, some of the things he’d said: _the mind is an intricate, delicate thing. It’s funny how nearly three pounds of soft tissue can allow us to solve mathematical equations, construct and understand concepts like time, and yet also make us ill, do irrational things or see things that aren’t really there._  
A majority of the rest of the lecture had been too much scientific babble for him to follow - and judging by the looks on some of the students’ faces, for them too - but it was something that had stuck with him. 

_This isn’t real._  
It’s ridiculous really, for the seventeen year old son of a respected psychotherapist to lose his shit over a storm; the dark; hell, a fucking flower. 

But when the next flash of lightning cracks across the sky, there isn’t the demon-dog he’d seen last month standing there, fur dripping and muzzle curled in a snarl, peeling back to reveal rows of shining teeth. There isn’t a portal to some other dimension, another version of the world, only darker, upside-down - what he’d swore had opened up like a grotesque mouth from the rotted bark of the tree in the backyard of his old house back in Hawkins not even a year ago. But there is a figure stood in the doorway to his parents’ bedroom. 

Steve can only assume it’s a woman from the long curls that tumble over her shoulders from beneath the ski mask she wears as she peers inside the room.  
Steve doesn’t move, barely breathes as he watches her retreat and start toward the next door.

All of Steve’s anger and reckless bravery has deflated, plummeted like lead to his stomach. He feels sick, cornered.  
He had been prepared for the usual nightmares, had felt somewhat reassured by the absurdity of it all. But this, this woman, who walks and moves and looks like any other woman he could pass on the street, looks like she could be real. 

He’s waiting for her to turn and notice him, for her to reveal her face, for it open up like a Venus flytrap, for reaching hands and jagged claws, a cavernous mouth to swallow him whole. But she takes so long inspecting every room, probably looking for any signs of life amongst the cardboard boxes, that Steve finds himself creeping back down the stairs, desperate for more time to avoid the inevitable horror building in his chest. 

But when he reaches the foot of the staircase, terrified and unsure where he could possibly turn to outrun his own mind, something loosely grabs him by the arm, groping for him in the dark and he staggers back, yelping. He’s forced to try and scramble away back up the stairs but he’s gripped by the ankle and tugged back. The force of it knocks him off balance and his head collides with the edge of the step.

 

He’d gotten into the habit of leaving the door unlocked, forgetting to most times, because he knew that he could back in Indiana. Nobody locked their doors in Hawkins; it was a small town in the middle of nowhere where everyone knew the family five streets down and their dog. Steve had grown up forgetting the neighbours’ names and pretending he hadn’t heard them calling his in the supermarket. 

His eyes ache in his head the next time he opens them. He’s sure that he must have knocked himself out somehow and is almost certain he has a concussion going by the throbbing pain in his temples. 

He can’t feel his fingers and there’s an agonising buzzing running through his arms like a livewire. They’re held above his head, bound at the wrists with a zip tie to the handle of one of the kitchen cupboards. 

The lights sputter on for a few seconds and he squints, the light burning his eyes. He groans.

“Well, look who’s awake already,” a voice murmurs from beside him, sounding amused as the overhead chandelier finally shudders fully back to life. 

Steve blinks, squints through the pain to get a good look at the man sliding down from where he’d been sat on the kitchen counter and crouching before him. Steve tries to place him, the dark eyes and sharp jaw, but he doesn’t look familiar in the slightest. Except for the jagged pink scar that runs along the length of his face, disfiguring his left eye.  
Steve shuts his eyes tightly and drops his head. 

“Told you he was a pretty one,” the man smiles gently, turning away for a second to acknowledge the woman leaning against the refrigerator behind him. He reaches a gloved hand out and strokes a single finger down Steve’s cheek, laughing softly. 

The woman steps forward and tugs off the ski mask. Her eyes are unsettlingly sharp, a piercing green and thickly-lined with black makeup. Steve can see, by the way she angles herself, a dozen or so track marks dotted along the line of her jugular.  
She smooths a shaky hand over her hair and tucks a blonde curl behind her ear before dropping a black duffle bag on the lino. The sound makes Steve jerk, rattling the handle he’s tied to. His head hurts. 

“You’re real,” Steve whispers absently. His eyes are locked on the bag by his feet. 

The man laughs, patting him on the arm. “Course we are, sweetheart. You’re just _precious,_ aren’t you?” The hand drifts lower to rest on his knee. 

“What… what are you-” He hesitates, not sure what he’s asking and whether or not he really wants to know the answer. 

The man’s hand starts to slide up his leg, curling around to graze his inner thigh. A thumb rubs small circles into his skin, threatening to press hard enough to leave a bruise behind. Steve stiffens; the man feels it and chuckles, wiggles his fingers. He shushes him with a finger to his lips as the woman rolls her eyes. 

“Jesus, Don. Are you going to help or what?” Her voice is scratchy, as though her throat is raw. 

The man’s nails scrape against the denim of Steve’s jeans. “Come on,” he pleads, baring his crooked teeth in a smile. 

Her eyes harden. “Just keep it in your pants for five minutes.” She strides out of the kitchen, toward the hall, curls swept behind her as she goes. In her absence, Steve feels as though she was his last line of defense. 

The man, Don, sucking on his lower lip in a contemplative manner, reaches out and grips a clump of Steve’s hair, wraps it around his finger. “She’s a big girl; she can wait, can’t she?” 

Steve frowns, wants to jerk away out of his reach but the hand in his hair is unrelenting. Don’s free hand brushes against his hip and lecherous fingers curl into the waistband of his jeans, seeking out the skin beneath them.  
Cold panic settles over him like a blanket, drops like lead into his stomach. He kicks a leg out to dislodge the hand working at his fly. 

Don grunts and shifts so he can place a leg either side of Steve, hovering over him, close enough that Steve can feel the warmth of his breath against his face. “Little shit.” The hand tightens around his bound wrists for leverage. 

“Get the hell off me,” Steve snarls, trying to squirm out from underneath the intimidatingly larger frame pinning him against the cupboard.  
He quickly begins to understand that if given the chance, this man will take what he wants, regardless of how much Steve kicks and shouts. 

There’s a jarring thud from another room, but Steve has no time to react, he’s too busy trying to fight the hands slipping along his skin. The button of his jeans pops and he hears the zipper being yanked down. 

In a blind moment of building rage, the taste of terror fresh on his tongue and heavy in his gut, he thrashes and throws his head forward.  
It pulls something in his neck but it’s worth it, considering how Don’s nose is crushed under the impact. Steve is quick to drive his knee up between the legs at either side of his hips when there isn’t an immediate reaction. 

The man buckles, dropping to the linoleum like a sack of potatoes with a groan. Steve freezes for a second to watch as Don’s hands clutch desperately at his groin, blood steadily trickling down his chin.  
He takes the opportunity to try and free his hands, twisting his body around to wrench his hands back, rattling the cupboard. He winces as the zip-tie digs uncomfortably into his skin. His jeans sit loosely at his hips, threatening to fall completely. 

He glances over his shoulder; Don’s eyes flicker up to meet his own. The man snarls at him through bloodied grit teeth. 

Steve pulls at the zip-tie harder as Don struggles up onto his elbows with a red scowl. Steve chokes on his own fear. “I’m gonna fucking _wreck_ you, you piece of shit.”

He launches himself bodily toward Steve and they struggle until he’s sat atop his thighs with a hand around Steve’s throat. In an attempt to jerk away, Steve knocks the back of his head against the cupboard he’s handcuffed to and a reverberating ache echoes inside his skull. The dizzying pain leaves him breathless, slumped in shock, and it’s all the man needs to take advantage of Steve’s already-undone jeans. They’re pulled down until they pool around his knees. Steve is only relieved his boxers haven’t been tugged along with them yet. 

The panic sets cold in Steve’s chest once the man’s hand dives past the elastic waistband of his boxers though. His thumb rubs along the length of Steve’s shaft.  
Steve starts kicking like a spooked horse, but his jeans trap his legs together so he’s left unintentionally bucking his hips further into the hand. 

Just as Steve is watching in horror as the man starts working at his own fly, there’s a sharp clatter that makes him pause his desperate thrashing; a resounding thud as Don drops to the floor beside him. He’s left frozen aside from the minute tremors in his core. 

_“Billy?”_

Steve’s mouth drops open a little at the sight of Billy stood in his kitchen, bright-eyed with wild curls haloing his murderous glare, and a frying pan gripped in one fist. He kicks the man’s side with a malicious turn to his lip. 

He turns away from the heaving lump left semi-conscious on the linoleum to shoot a winning smile at Steve, dropping the pan. “Hey,” he breathes around the vicious grin, but it drops when he notices how Steve flinches hard at the sound. 

Steve can see the moment Billy sees it. His eyes harden as he spots the way Steve’s jeans are falling to sit at his thighs; how his boxers, dishevelled, barely even rest at his hips. How there are unshed tears glistening in his eyes. 

Steve blinks them away. His breathing is rapidly slipping further and further out of his control. 

Don moans weakly at Billy’s feet. It’s all the incentive Billy needs to lean down, grip him by the back of his shirt and pull him up onto his knees. He hisses something Steve can’t hear into Don’s ear before shoving him back to the floor.  
If Steve hadn’t been sure the man’s nose wasn’t broken before, he’s confident that it must be now. 

Billy stands there in the aftermath, awkward, as though he isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to do now. His hands fiddle with the hem of his shirt. 

His eyes drift over Steve a little warily, as though he’s expecting anything other than relief, as though Steve is seconds away from kicking him out. 

Steve shakes his bound hands a little desperately, trying to draw attention to the zip-tie instead. “Could you?” 

Billy nods, turning to rummage eagerly through the cutlery drawers before he comes back brandishing a serrated knife. The blade glints in the light.  
Steve thinks it’s probably time he reevaluates his recent life choices given that he isn’t concerned in the slightest about letting Billy Hargrove handle a blade around his wrists. 

Billy cuts the tie and Steve lets out a long breath, rubbing at the red skin. “Thanks.”

Billy shrugs, eyes purposely flicking back to the man lying on Steve’s kitchen floor so as to avoid watching as he pulls his jeans back up with shaky hands. He’s still holding the knife, thumb absently sweeping up and down the handle. 

Steve bites his lip and, a little hesitantly, takes the knife from him. He places it gently on the counter. 

He almost chokes when he remembers that the man hadn’t been alone. “Wait. Where’s the woman?” 

Billy jerks his head to the left, “Hall.” 

Steve nods slowly, unsure how else he’s supposed to react. 

“Come on,” he tries a little weakly, wrapping his fingers around Billy’s arm and towing him out of the room.

 

Not long after that the Chief of police is stood in Steve’s doorway, lecturing him on the importance of locks and just exactly why they were fitted in the first place.  
Steve’s just grateful Billy hadn’t ran right for the door the moment he’d picked up the phone. The second the Chief had pulled up on Steve’s driveway, Billy’d started looking like he was about to bolt. He’d thought about telling him he looked like a nervous deer but thought better of it when he noticed the volts of tension running through Billy’s frame every time he stood too still. 

They’re stood in Steve’s hall, watching the rain outside lessen as the dark clouds start to thin overhead. Billy’s hair is damp, little droplets of rain in his curls catching the sparse light. 

“Why were you here?” Billy raises his eyebrows and Steve has to bite his tongue. “I mean, thank God you were, but, like-“

“Power went out,” he shrugs and leads Steve onto the porch through the open door.  
An officer leaning against the brick wall filling out a form glances between the two of them and heads inside at Steve’s pointed look. 

Billy shoves his fingers into the pockets of his jeans and pointedly kicks at the backpack left on the last step. He crouches and opens it up so Steve can see the flashlights, popcorn and laptop stuffed inside. Steve feels his chest get a little tight; unexpectedly and absurdly fond. 

“I figured you could use the company, and it’s not exactly like I had anything better to do,” Billy shrugs again, shoulders stiff. There’s something bitter in his voice that Steve doesn’t know whether he should ask about or not. 

His eyes trail down the curve of his back and from where he’s stood, shin brushing Billy’s arm as he peers over his shoulder at the bag, he can see the few tiny white-blonde curls at the nape of his neck, the dark freckle peeking out from behind the collar of his shirt. 

He wets his lips. “Thank you,” he chokes out. Billy turns to glance at his face and quickly averts his eyes to Steve’s battered blue sneakers, looking very much like he’s trying not to shrug before turning away again. 

As he lifts his arm to zip up the backpack, the material of his shirt rides up, exposing the tan skin of his lower back that Steve’s eyes immediately latch on to. He knows he should feel ashamed, _does_ \- the blood he can feel burning in his face tells him Billy would be able to spot it too - but he can’t look away. Firstly, Billy’s a sight to behold most of the time, regardless of how cocky the fucker might be; Steve’s gonna take whatever chance he gets at this point. But there’s something else that catches his eye. 

Steve can only just see it, the hard line of blue and purple from underneath the hem of Billy’s shirt where it looks like he’d been shoved against something, held there. He thinks back to the night Carol and Tommy had confronted them at the beach; the way Billy had all too easily overpowered Tommy. 

He stares at the bruise and wonders what Tommy must look like with an internal wince. 

Billy stands and he snaps his eyes to meet Billy’s a little guiltily, knowing that his smile probably gives him away. Billy gives him a considering glance and looks just a little too smug for Steve’s liking. 

He doesn’t think before he opens his mouth, as usual. “Is that from Tommy?” 

He curses himself. Now Billy _knows_ he’d been looking. 

Billy furrows his eyebrows. “What?”

“The bruise on your back,” he gestures weakly. 

Billy’s hand shoots to press against the blooming colours just above the waistband of his jeans and his easy expression falls into something more guarded. His mouth presses into a hard line. His jaw visibly tightens. 

Steve figures he’s hit a specific nerve that he shouldn’t’ve. “It doesn’t matter,” he shakes his head dismissively, wanting desperately to cram the words back in his mouth, anything to get rid of the tightness that’s returned in Billy’s frame. “Thanks,” he echoes unsurely. 

Billy jerks his shoulders stiffly, turning his gaze to the curb at the end of Steve’s drive where his Camaro’s haphazardly parked. 

Before Steve can reach out and try and coax him back as if he’s some cornered animal, he feels a rough hand on his shoulder. He jumps as Billy bristles. 

He spins around and meets the Chief’s wide eyes. “Woah, sorry, kid.” He holds his hands up like Steve’s expecting him to try and wrestle him to the ground. 

Steve tries to smile reassuringly, for Billy as much as the Chief, but it’s strained. “It’s okay.” 

The hand finds its way back to Steve’s shoulder as the Chief eyes Billy. Billy goes tense again under his assessing stare. Steve’s grateful when he’s pulled aside. “Can I talk to you, kid?” 

“What’s up?” Steve watches Billy from the corner of his eye, the way he seems to gravitate toward his car almost desperately. 

“How d’you know Billy Hargrove?” 

Steve startles a little at the question, far from anything he’d expected. “What? He’s-“ he pauses. He knows how bad it sounds out loud. “My dad’s… client, I guess.”

“Where are your parents, kid?” The Chief asks. _Hopper,_ Steve reads from the badge pinned to his chest. 

“New York.” Hopper raises his eyebrows. Steve feels the need to defend them. “Only for the weekend. The number for their office is on the fridge.” 

Hopper nods. “Okay.” He looks to Billy again over Steve’s shoulder. “Everything alright, kid?” 

Steve nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, why?”

“I’ve lost count how many warnings I’ve given that boy, ‘specially for drinking. Don’t get me started on the number of fights he’s been in.” 

Steve thinks to that night on the beach, with Tommy. He nods again absently. “I’m not drinking, Chief. Or getting in fights,” Steve tries to assure him. Hopper doesn’t look relieved. 

“I know this, kid. And I can’t tell you what you can and can’t do, but I’m just saying it’s not good to let him hang around.” Steve opens his mouth to protest but Hopper silences him with a look. “I get it. I do, kid. He’s your friend and you think you’re good for him, but it’s not gonna end with you changing him.” 

Hopper pats Steve’s shoulder again. Steve doesn’t argue, just scrutinises the buttons on his jacket. 

Hopper nods to himself, like he’s ran out of things to say, and heads back inside, pulling the porch door shut after him. 

Steve turns back to Billy in his absence and hesitates before stepping forward. 

Billy looks down at his shoes before seeming to steel himself, raising his chin. “What’d he want?”

“Nothing,” he dismisses. “Asked me if I knew Bonnie and Clyde.”

They’re left standing there with nothing to say. Billy takes a small step backward, standing on the first step that connects Steve’s porch and the driveway. Steve follows him unthinkingly.  
From where he’s stood on the step, Billy now seems just as short as Steve. He wants to lean forward now that he’s found this opportunity, wants to take it before Billy ultimately moves away like Steve knows he will. 

He bites his tongue, hard, deliberating. He imagines Billy pulling out of his driveway after making sure Steve hadn’t fallen down the stairs and broken his neck in the dark; or, Hell, hadn’t gotten attacked and murdered in his own house. He wants to feel guilty for dragging Billy into such a mess. Instead, he just feels grateful, maybe even a little attached to the asshole. 

“You should stay,” Steve blurts before he can really think about it, only concerned with keeping Billy from driving away. “If you want to,” he adds tentatively. 

Billy looks startled at that. His gaze turns toward the door where, no doubt, he can see Hopper inside through the glass. 

He knows that, if given enough time to form an answer, Billy will just refuse, so he pushes a little. “Come on. I’ve got a whole collection of DVDs for you to complain about.” 

Billy smirks a little, and steps back onto the porch. Steve feels relief flood into his chest as he tilts his head to look up at him.

 

Billy’s lying next to him on the right-hand side of Steve’s bed. His features, usually sharp and hardened, are softened with sleep. Steve tries to look away, in case he wakes up, but he just ends up studying the curve of his cupid’s bow, the way his dark eyelashes cast long shadows across his cheekbones. 

Hopper had left quick, Don and the blonde woman handcuffed in the back of his cruiser. He’d slapped Steve on the back as he’d left, reminding him to “lock your fucking doors, kid.” 

Before he’d driven away, he’d watched them both with a searching look. Billy had held up his middle finger, just moments after the Chief had turned away. 

Billy had turned a grin on him shortly after that and asked, “weren’t you high the other night?” He’d pushed the door shut with the flat of his hand and twisted the lock as he’d directed an almost predatory look toward Steve. 

Steve was grateful for the way the joint had helped him drift into sleep, even though he’d woken up three hours later anyway. Regardless of how he kind of thought it was probably Billy in his bed that had helped rather than anything else. He figured that at three in the morning he didn’t have anything better to do other than look at Billy anyway. 

A few minutes pass like that, until a sharp burst of movement catches his eye. Steve stiffens, eyes tracking the shadow dancing across his wall like a splash of black ink in the dark. 

He recoils back in horror when the splatter spreads outward, curling tendrils threatening to swallow the room whole. 

His back presses into a solid wall of warm skin. He’s caught off guard, shocked, until he realises it’s Billy. The warmth of him burns through their t-shirts and settles deep inside of Steve. He can feel it sitting comfortably behind his sternum, in his throat, in the pit of his stomach. 

He doesn’t want to move, wants nothing more than to press closer, bury himself in the unyielding heat that is Billy. But the shadow looms, growing with every shaky breath. 

Billy makes a muffled sound as he presses his nose into Steve’s hair. Steve makes to slip away despite the way his heart is close to leaping into his throat; he’s afraid Billy’s started to stir, but as he shifts, he’s caught by his waist. The weight of Billy’s arm absently curling around him is grounding, and under it, Steve feels as though nothing can get to him, not past Billy. 

The shadow seems to vibrate, swaying back and forth between the crack in the plaster and the ceiling before veering toward the floor. Steve’s eyes are fixed upon it where it sinks like tar into the carpeting and vanishes altogether. 

Steve relaxes, simultaneously relieved and bewildered, but settles regardless into the shelter and safety that Billy isn’t even aware he’s provided. As he drifts, feeling secure in a way he hasn’t since he was a child, he thinks back to what the Chief had said. _You think you’re good for him._

He wonders whether Hopper could have gotten that wrong, because in that moment, it felt very much like Billy was the one holding Steve together.


End file.
